Allure
by Bellicose Blue
Summary: They sang of knowledge once, the sirens did. The desire to know things no one else did was irresistible for a thousand years. But men want a different kind of desire now, so she sings of carnal lust and sultry promises. It's a song that's never failed. (Dedicated to Fire Without a Flame)


_Now the Sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song, namely their silence. And though admittedly such a thing has never happened, still it is conceivable that someone might possibly have escaped from their singing; but from their silence certainly never._

* * *

She's called a siren, the honey-voiced creature of tales so ancient they're more blood than story. Some say sirens are flesh-eaters, cannibals, who lure men to their deaths so they can feast on their meat, lap the power from their blood. Others say their only interest is self-preservation, that if any man can hear their song and escape, the sirens will die. She isn't sure which kind they'd label her, can't decide which one is more evil. Which is crueler: to ruin another because you want to, or to keep yourself alive at the expense of others?

Whichever it is, she uses her songs sparingly. Her looks will do the trick most of the time. A coy look, a sensual smile, and suddenly people are springing to their feet to help her. They know she's dangerous, deadly, but they can't resist her. It's almost too easy.

Then her easy life shudders to a stop as her name is called out, as she ascends the stage. Normally someone would volunteer in place of her to seize the glory for themselves, but she's hated, abhorred among the other girls for the men she's lured away. They watch her unblinkingly, silently. It's a statement, a cold one, but there's nothing she can do for it. Her songs are inescapable, unstoppable, but they have one caveat: they don't work on women.

So she smiles at the boy who volunteers after her, watches the way his eyes grow large as he realizes just what he's next to. Horror claws at his features, but it's far too late for him. She croons just one note as she shakes his hand, and he's hers.

Her mentor has all of the devastating beauty of the sirens but none of their persuasion. Cashmere's fated to a life far worse than she's ever known, sold without any means with which to protect herself. Her brother Gloss falls to her melody, and there's utter hatred in Cashmere's eyes as she stares at her. There's a flicker of envy in there, too, at her ability to command absolute obedience from any man, should she so desire.

She arrives in a place lovelier than her daydreams, crueler than her nightmares. She's like the Capitol in a way, both beautiful on the surface and rotten beneath. She hides her disenchantment with a smile as she waves out the window at the poor, unsuspecting fools.

She's painted silver as she's sent around, glittering with heavy jewels and waving delicately. The roars of the crowd drown out any effect her song may have, so she sticks to beaming. She is silver like the sea and the moon and she remembers lounging on rocks as the tide lapped at her tail in a simpler life, a better life.

Her weapon is silver the next day. It's a lovely, curving piece of art, her bow, and she shoots it fluidly, the arrow gliding like molten steel. She turns to watch the others, her allies, as they train beside her. There's Marvel from home, deadly with a spear and not much else. Tiny, fierce Clove, who grinned when she saw her in a way that told her just how much she'd love to slice her to pieces. Handsome, brutal Cato, who's oddly immune to her charms.

She'd pouted at first when she'd realized that he was rather nauseatingly enchanted with the spitfire from his own home, then she'd been amused. They're an almost comical couple, spitting insults with no real venom at each other, and she toys for a moment with the idea of luring him away, then decides against it. Clove is just waiting for an opportunity to cut her down, that she knows, and she doesn't want to give her a reason.

She's already seduced Marvel to her side, but she'd rather find a stronger protector, one who can keep her safe from harm until she deems it right to kill him. So she visits giant, sullen Thresh, sidles beside him and opens her mouth, but he cuts her off before she can begin to sing. He isn't interested, he tells her, in joining her little group of murderers. She chokes on dulcet notes as he leaves.

She sings aloud to the crowds, watching their grotesque faces morph from curiosity to lust. They want her, would do anything to have her, even keep her alive. She thinks again of scattered bones and torn flesh and licks her lips. It doesn't even matter what kind of siren she is. In the end, she's no more than a monster singing of destruction and desire, calling sailors to drown in the seas.

They sang of knowledge once, the sirens did. The desire to know things no one else did was irresistible for a thousand years. But men want a different kind of desire now, so she sings of carnal lust and sultry promises. It's a song that's never failed.

She is sent to war the next morning, her blood singing the same song that rings in her voice, murmuring of wisdom and power and ruin. She's never killed anyone before, preferring instead to lure them to their own willful destruction. Still, she thinks, she wouldn't mind getting a little blood on her hands.

And she does. She sings to a group of boys as they flee, and they skid to a stop, eyes glazing over. She kills them gracefully before they can snap out of their confusion and pouts when it's over. Clove, cruel, clever Clove sees her do that, and her eyes narrow thoughtfully but she doesn't say anything. They finish their sport and move onto hunting.

She's never had to hunt before. If she's ever wanted for company, it has sought her out, not the other way around. She comforts herself with the knowledge that Marvel is totally and utterly under her sway, and soon so will the rest of the world. She'll be famous soon. She can already taste it like saltwater, submerge herself in its ocean, the current strong and relentless. She hunts and she schemes as dusk falls.

She wakes to find she's been abandoned. Far in the distance, she can see Cato's retreating figure trailing the others as they sprint away from her. She's gripped by panic, knows the tiny, sly girl must've had something to do with this, but it's not too late, it can't be. She leans up on the rocks and sings, her most persuasive notes reaching Cato's ears and making him freeze.

She sings to him and he hears, but he does not come to her. His heart belongs to another, and with it any temptation he might have had. He hears her song and escapes, and she dies. Oh, it's nothing so obvious as her dropping dead of a shattered heart. It's the almost leisurely way her will to live escapes her, eludes her, and she knows she should fight back but she can't.

She breaks like a song torn asunder, all haunting melodies and discordant notes that taste like dust on her lips. She's breathtaking even in the slow throes of death, singing desperately for someone's aid, but no one is drawn by her lure.

She was a bird once, with curving wings and feathers that glistened in the sun. She remembers how it felt to fly, how _free_ she was. This body is so heavy, binding her to the ground, but she wishes to feel the wind on her face one last time. She staggers to the edge of her shoal and leaps.

She is silent as she falls.


End file.
